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Read Ebook: The Boy Artist. A Tale for the Young by F M S
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Ebook has 573 lines and 20610 words, and 12 pages
"Why, your painting, to be sure."
"Nonsense, Madge, I must paint; it's my life to paint."
Madge gave a long deep sigh, too long and deep for a child of her age.
"Woman's life is to glory in man," said Raymond grandly.
"Oh!" said Madge, with an unbelieving laugh, "there's more than that in it; there's a great deal of work, too, I can assure you."
"I daresay," Raymond answered carelessly; "but, Madge, you must never talk of my giving up painting, because I should die if I did."
"Should you? O Raymond, don't."
"No, I won't until I have done something great--something to make you proud of me--something which shall make my name to be remembered;" and the boy's eyes flashed now, but it was too dark for any one to see it.
Madge liked to hear him say these kind of things, though she was not an artist herself, only a patient, loving little girl, who thought there was no one in the world like Raymond, and she put out her hand and laid it softly upon his, as if she would lay her claim to that by which his fame was to come.
They sat in silence for some time--Raymond looking into the fire, and thinking of his future; Madge looking at him, and wondering if she should ever see him as famous as she felt sure he ought to be.
The door was opened suddenly, and their father came in. Even with streaks of gray in his hair, and deep lines upon his face, Mr. Leicester was handsome; and he had a gay, dashing air, that heightened the charm of his appearance. He carelessly kissed Madge, and laid his hand on Raymond's shoulder, then sat down by the fire.
"It's cold to-night, children."
"Yes, father; shall I get tea?"
"Not to-night, sweet Madge. I must be off soon; I have an engagement. I only looked in to see how you were getting on."
"Very well," said Raymond gruffly.
"Oh! that's right; I'm glad to hear it."
There was a long pause, then Mr. Leicester said abruptly, "Raymond, lad, I've found some work for you at last."
Raymond started. He had long ago found work for himself, and did not want any other.
"Stephens and Johnson will shortly have a vacancy, and then you can go to them as soon as you like."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, that they want a shop-boy."
Raymond stood up proudly. "I'm a gentleman, father."
"Come, come, never mind that. We know all that; but I don't want heroics. You must either work or starve."
"I'm working."
"Pooh, pooh! A little desultory dabbling in painting; let me tell you, Master Raymond, that is not my idea of work."
"But, father, I must paint; I could not live if I did not."
"Nonsense; that is all the ridiculous ideas that you get up here. When you are shaken out in the world you will lose them."
Raymond's hands were raised to his face, and he was shivering with excitement. Madge came to her father's side, and put one hand on his shoulder.
"Father, Raymond is a painter. If you were to send him to a shop, he would be a painter still. You cannot crush out what is bound up in his heart. Is it not better for him to rise to fame by painting? Some day he will be your glory and mine."
Mr. Leicester shook her hand off.
"You don't know what you are talking about. Little girls should hold their tongues, and learn to be silent."
Madge breathed more freely--there was a month's reprieve, and she stretched out her hand to Raymond. He clutched it, and held it in a vice-like grasp.
"Father," he said at last, and his voice was low and hoarse, "I want to ask you something."
"Well?"
"You are not coming back for a month. If during that time I can sell one of my pictures, and can hand you over a reasonable sum of money, may I go on painting?"
His father thought for a moment, then laughed. "Yes, safe enough. Perhaps you'll know what it is to be hungry before the month's out, and will be glad enough to leave off your dabbling."
Then he stood up--patted Madge's head--went to the door, and came back again as if seized with a new impulse--shook hands with Raymond, and kissed his little daughter's forehead. "Good-bye, children; take care of yourselves," and he went away. Then Madge came to Raymond's side, and he laid his head upon her shoulder with a low piteous cry.
"Hush, darling, hush," she whispered. "It will all come right, don't fear. Let us trust God; he has given you this talent for painting, and he will teach you how to use it. There's a whole month, and who knows what may happen in that time! You may become famous." She went on earnestly; but he took no notice--only pressed his hands tighter and closer over his throbbing forehead.
"Raymond, I know you will be an artist--a great one--some day," whispered Madge.
"Never, never, if I am to be ground down in a shop," he groaned.
"You will, you will," she answered, throwing her arm round his neck. "If you keep up a brave, strong heart, and are not discouraged. Nobody can do anything if they lose heart."
"But to be always, always working, and to have no success. O Madge, it is so hard and bitter!"
In spite of himself Raymond laughed, and Madge was satisfied. She went on brightly. "Some day I shall be so proud to be the sister of Mr. Raymond Leicester, the great painter, whose picture will be one of the gems in the Royal Academy some year or other; and we shall glory in you."
"Oh, he would--he would; and if he didn't, you would be mine--all mine," she added softly, as she laid her hand on his arm.
Raymond looked up suddenly. "Madge, you are a witch, I think. I wonder what those men do who have no sisters--poor fellows;" and then he kissed her.
There was a glad light in Madge's eyes then. He so seldom did this, except for good-night and good-morning, that she knew what it meant. She was very silent for a few minutes, then sprang up, exclaiming, "Now we must have tea, and then you have your etching to do, and I am going to pay up the rent, and then I'll read to you, and do my sums."
THE FEVER.
And Raymond did work. Madge watched him with hopeful pride, and seldom stirred from his side. Their small store of money was nearly gone, and there seemed but little likelihood of a fresh supply.
Raymond's hopes were bound up in the picture he was then engaged upon. If only he could finish that, he felt sure that he could sell it. There was a feverish light in his eyes, a burning flush upon his cheeks, while he worked. He spoke seldom; but Madge saw him raise his hand sometimes to his forehead as if in pain. The picture was nearly done, and Raymond looked up for a minute one morning, and saw that the sun was shining brightly down on the sea of roofs and chimney-pots which for the most part constituted the view from their garret window, and then he said to Madge, "Go out, and get a breath of fresh air; it is stifling work for you to be always up here."
"Shan't you want me to mix your colours, Raymond?"
"No; go. I should rather you went."
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